An Angel? Maybe
by Tenukii
Summary: "I was looking at myself from the back of the Polar Express, and I was dead.": The hobo tells the conductor about how he died.


A/N: Dedicated to those who wanted a slightly darker PolEx! This continuation of my fanfic "The Things We Can't See" was partially inspired by the poem "Homeless" by Sarita11 and by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra's version of "What Child Is This?", pieces of which are quoted in the story. The song has a completely different context on TSO's album with the accompanying narration. . . but I always think of the hobo instead!

* * *

_In the dead of the night, as his life slips away,_

_As he reads by the light of a star far away,_

_Holding on, holding off, holding out, holding in,_

_Can you be this old and have your life just begin?_

* * *

"How did it happen?" the conductor asked abruptly. It was the first time either of them had spoken in almost an hour.

"How did what happen?" The hobo took a long swig of hot chocolate from the mug he had just refilled. It was Christmas night, and they were sitting in the conductor's living room in front of the fire, on opposite ends of a worn plaid sofa.

"You know what," the conductor said in a tone of irritation. In less than twenty-four hours of knowing the hobo, he had realized that the ghost was a lot like the children who rode the Polar Express every year: often deliberately obtuse. "How did you end up being a ghost?"

"Oh. That." The hobo looked down at the mug he cradled in his bony, calloused hands. The room was dim, lit only by the fire; since it was perpetually night for half of the year there at the North Pole, the conductor had taken to keeping the lights bright during the "day" hours and dark during the "night," in order to maintain some sense of regularity. In that flickering, yellow light, the roughness of the hobo's features was somewhat obscured: his grizzled face, his broken nose, and the hard glitter of his eyes were all softened. Even with his rumpled brown hair, he looked almost handsome.

"I understand if you don't want to talk about it," the conductor went on briskly, when the ghost made no move to reply.

"Eh, it's not that." The hobo looked up again, squinting at the fire. "It's just, no one ever bothered to ask before, you know? What's it to _you_?"

"I don't know," muttered the conductor impatiently, beginning to wish he _hadn'_t asked. He really wasn't sure why he was so curious about it. Maybe because they'd spent most of the whole day together (minus a two hour period in the afternoon when the conductor had taken a much-deserved nap): opening the presents Mr. C had given them, walking about the Pole, making hot chocolate and generally experiencing Christmas- something the conductor had come to take rather for granted in the years he had been driving the PolEx, and something which the hobo had not done since his death.

In all of that time, the hobo had not talked a bit about himself. When he spoke, it was to make some sarcastic or facetious remark, often at the conductor's expense, or to bicker with the assorted elves they passed. The conductor felt as if he knew no more about his companion now than when he first laid eyes on the stranger the night before.

"Well," the hobo said finally. "I guess I could tell you about how it happened- but don't ask me _why_, 'cause I wouldn't know any more than you do, other than what I said before."

"'If we don't go forth in life, we are doomed to do so after death,'" the conductor murmured, echoing what the hobo had told him earlier.

"Yeah. That." The hobo smirked at him, then took one more slurp of hot chocolate before setting the mug down.

* * *

It was Christmas Eve, of course- it always is in these stories, right? Can't remember what year it was, but it was before your time on the PolEx. . . heck, it's probably been a quarter century by now, at least. It was one of the coldest Christmases on record (of course; it always is), and I'd been riding all day. By the time the sun set, I was about froze through. I got down at the next station we came to and snuck off-

_"Sneaked," the conductor interrupted._

_"Excuse me?" spat the hobo._

_"'Snuck' isn't proper English."_

_"Look, whose story is this anyway?" the hobo grumbled._

I _snuck _off the freight train I'd been on and sorta lost myself in with the crew until I was sure no one would know where I came from. That was easy enough, but what's hard is knowing what to do next- where to go. I guess _you_ wouldn't have any idea what that's like- being so hungry you ain't hungry anymore, and so cold you don't really feel it, except that it just. . . sorta hurts, all over.

Okay, stop looking so embarrassed- and for Pete's sake, don't look _sorry_ for me either. Believe me, that's the _last_ thing I want. You wanna feel guilty about it, fine, but go _do_ something about it. Futzing around at the North Pole 364 days a year don't help nobody.

. . . Heh, bet I'm the first person in twenty years who's made _you_ blush.

_"Get on with it," muttered the conductor._

Anyway, I was looking around for somewhere warm. There ain't that many freights running Christmas Eve, and despite my present occupation, you can't bum a ride off a passenger train all that easy. So I figured I'd stay put for a while. I think I forgot to mention, I was sick, too. Some kinda cough I'd had for weeks, never did find out what it was.

So there I am, coughing and shivering and getting all kinds of dirty looks from all the dressed up people getting on those passenger trains to visit Grandma and Grandpa at the last minute. I'm sure you got some dirty looks in your day too being a conductor though, kicking people off for not having their tickets- and _don't_ tell me you didn't! If you're gonna make a _kid_ on a _magical train_ show a ticket, I know you never let anyone _else_ slide by.

_The conductor sighed. "I suppose not."_

But you ain't never got looked at the way _we_ did. You know on Christmas everyone's s'posed to be all sappy and loving and neighborly- but not to guys like us.

Anyway, so I was looking for somewhere to get warmed up. Course I didn't have money to go to the café, and they'd kick me out of the newsstand on sight, so I ended up at the restroom- thought I could wash up some at least. But back then, they had attendants, at that station anyway, so you can imagine, I didn't even go in.

Finally I gave up and just sat down by the tracks, leaning up against the station building, to read some newspaper- or part of one- I picked up off the ground. I hadn't even looked at the station signs when I rode in, so I had no idea where I was- but whaddya know, that paper was from my own hometown.

_"And where is that?" interrupted the conductor. The hobo just gave him a put-out look and went on as if he hadn't heard._

So then I started looking around me, and yeah, that station did look a little familiar- but then, I hadn't been back to the ol' homestead since I started riding, so I couldn't be sure. Things change, ya know.

_The conductor looked at him, then looked down into the empty mug on his own lap. "Yes," he muttered, "they certainly do."_

But pretty soon I forgot all about that- it was too cold to care _where_ I was; all I knew was that I wasn't warm. I just kept on reading that paper, same corny ads over and over, to keep my mind off that all-over ache and the coughing.

_The hobo fell silent again. The conductor waited a moment to see if he'd continue then said with surprising gentleness, "If you don't want to finish-" The hobo cut him off with a defensive mutter, and for the first time since they had met, **he** was the one to look slightly embarrassed._

I ain't going back on my word- I said I'd tell you, and I will. I was just remembering how cold it was. So I was sitting there, minding my own business and reading when I got that being-watched feeling. Always thought that was a bunch of horse hockey up until that day, that there wasn't any way you could tell someone was watching you without seeing them. But it's true; I _could _feel it.

I looked up and found this little kid staring at me- which ain't really nothing new; people always wanna stare at us outcasts, and the kids ain't learned not to yet. It was a boy, maybe four at the oldest, and he looked like one of them cherubs on Christmas cards- you know, the lazy angels who lay around resting their round little heads on their chubby little arms, staring off into space while the Big Man Upstairs does all the work of creating and what-not. But yeah, this kid had the curly blond hair, the big ol' innocent blue eyes, the works. . . . Now that I think of it, your eyes are exactly that same color. Minus the bigness and the innocence, of course. Funny I never noticed that in all these years.

_The conductor felt himself irrationally embarrassed. "Get on with it!"_

Yeah, yeah, okay. So this kid's standing right by me, looking, but he don't seem to belong to any one. No family anywhere near him, and he wasn't dressed right for as cold as it was. He had a little sweater thing on but no coat or nothing, and he was shaking a little.

I knew what I was s'posed to do. . . bundle the kid up and try to find his folks. But I didn't. I went back to the same ads in the paper and tried to ignore him.

. . . Don't look at me like that, I had my reasons. One, I was cold, and if I put my coat on the kid, I'd be colder. And two, even if I found his parents, what were they gonna think- a bum like me with their kid. They'd have the cops all over me before I could explain.

But. . . I started coughing again, pretty bad. Thought that would've scared him off, but I looked up when I was catching my breath after. The kid was still there, a little closer, just watching me. I was starting to get a little creeped out.

So I asked, "What's your name, kid?" just trying to get him to say something. But he doesn't, he just looks. I just keep looking back until I realize there's something a little familiar about him. Not the eyes, but that hair and the shape of his face.

And then it hits me: the kid looks like some of my own family.

_"You have a family?" the conductor interrupted. At the hobo's exasperated expression, he amended, "Well, had. . . ."_

I had parents; everybody does, you know, somewhere. But the kid looked the most like my sister. She was younger than me by a couple years. . . didn't look much like me either. But that kid had her curly blond hair.

And after I realized that, I couldn't just ignore him anymore. I knew I'd freeze my- well, I'd freeze if I took off my coat. . . but I did it anyway. And I got up and put it around him. It was about twice as big as he was, but he quit shivering. I sure started up harder than ever though, and it made me cough some more too.

Anyway, I left the newspaper there and picked the kid up, and started walking down the station again. Got some strange looks, I'll tell you. . . people thinking he was my kid maybe, until they got a look at his face. Then they looked like they thought I was kidnapping him, but no one said anything. Guess they didn't want to get involved.

We were getting close to the station doors, and the kid still hadn't said anything. I kinda snuck a look at him, and he was still watching me, not scared or nothing- more like he was just trying to figure me out. Then I looked up and saw this older couple coming out of the doors. . . and I know- I know they're his folks.

_The hobo broke off again and looked at the fire. The conductor waited, watching him as the child had. He saw the ghost's chiseled jaw clench. The conductor started to speak, but then he, for once, was patient enough to keep silent. Finally, the ghost went on._

It all made sense then because they were the kid's grandparents. They were my sister's parents, they were _my_ parents.

I just stopped there, because I didn't know she'd had a kid- how could I, I'd been gone for nearly eight years by then, and she was a kid herself when I left. It was like I hadn't realized time had passed until that moment, and those eight years all happened at once. My kid sister grew up and became a woman, and had her own family. And my parents- they looked frantic, with their grandson run off. . . well, life had gone on for my family, without me.

I guess I should've known it would, but somewhere inside, I had hoped me leaving had meant something to them.

I was still standing there, wondering what I was gonna do, when they saw me. You probably know by now, I don't scare easy. But I was scared then, scared they'd call the cops faster than any strangers would. . . and I don't know, I guess just scared it would happen all over again, all the fighting and guilt and everything else.

But then they did see me, and the looks on their faces- I've never seen anyone look that happy. Not then, not since. . . not even those kids of yours when they see the big man himself. I forgot about the kid for a minute, and I thought those looks were for _me_.

Of course they weren't, and when they came running over it was to snatch the kid out of my arms, my coat and all, and fawn over him. Not that I can blame them, I mean, it was obvious they loved the kid. Then they looked up at me, over his blond head, and the kid was looking over his shoulder, still watching me too.

I was scared again, a little, then my mom said something like, "Thank you, young man," like she didn't even know me. And when I looked in her eyes. . . no, she _didn't_ know me. Neither of 'em recognized me at all.

And I know why. I looked different, of course I did. . . hadn't shaved in a while, got my nose broke a couple weeks before. . . I looked different. And I guess they weren't expecting to see _me_ there, anyway.

It was the strangest feeling though- like I was a ghost, already, like they didn't see me at all even as they looked right at me. People always looked at me like that since I started riding, but when your own parents look at you and don't know you. . . you're dead to the world.

My father was offering to buy me a meal or something, and now they were aiming their happy looks at me. They were nicer to a bum like me than most other people were- most other people _would_ have called for the cops. But it was worse in a way. . . because they were treating me as a bum better than they treated me as their son, at least at the end, right before I left.

I tried to turn them down, say I didn't need anything, because I just wanted to get out of there. . . then _she_ came out on the platform, my sister. She saw the kid in our parents' arms right away, and she ran to him with that same happy look, carrying what must have been his little coat.

She looked great, grown up into a pretty woman, and she had a nice looking wedding ring. Made me sad to know I'd missed that, but I was glad for her too.

And then _she_ looked at me, and she recognized me. Her face lit up, for _me_. But there were questions in it too, and then she looked at our parents.

"This man found him!" my mother said, all smiling and relieved, and then my sister's face changed. "Your father's trying to get him down to the diner for a meal."

My sister's eyes- they were hazel, not blue like her kid's- turned to me, and she asked, "Won't you come?"

"No ma'am," I said. I felt that cough growing in my throat, but I held it back. "Just glad I could help."

"But it's Christmas Eve. Please."

And I wanted to. I loved her, and she'd always loved me- she tried and tried to change their minds when they kicked me out- but I didn't want to ruin it for her. Because it _was_ Christmas Eve, and if they figured out who I was. . . maybe they'd want me back, but maybe they wouldn't, and she would always remember that, every Christmas.

So I said no, I was sorry. I could tell it hurt her, but before she said anything else, the cough forced itself out. I covered my mouth and turned away from them and half bent over coughing, the kind that burned deep. There was blood on my hand before I finished, and I tried to wipe my mouth on my sleeve before I looked at them again. Now my parents had backed away, and the look on my sister's face about broke my heart.

"Please, let us-" she started, but my father cut her off.

"Sweetheart, if he doesn't want to come, we should let him be."

She kept looking at me a moment, then she took my coat off her son. Once he was dressed in his own jacket, she handed my coat back. I could tell she was about to cry, so I took it quick as I could. I never did like to see her cry.

I put my coat back on, and my dad looked straight at me and said, "Thank you, son." He never called me son even when I _was_ his son, and that was all I could take. I turned my back to them and went down the platform, away from them. My sister called "Wait!" but I didn't, and by the time I looked back, they'd gone inside.

I went back to where I'd left the newspaper and sat down again. I didn't look at the ads again, just stared out at the tracks while the people got fewer and fewer around me. I coughed some more, until I had to use the newspaper to wipe my mouth, and after a while, there wasn't anybody around at all.

As I sat there, though, I was thinking. . . about what used to be my family, but most of all about that kid, my nephew. Thinking that 'cause of him, I got to see my sister again, to know that she was okay and that she still remembered me. And then I got to thinking about how my parents looked when they saw the kid was safe, the love on their faces, and how they were kind to me just thinking I was any old bum. I guess that's when I forgave them. They made my life hard those last couple years, and of course when they finally kicked me out. . . but I never tried to make them understand me, neither. I just shut down to everybody but my sister- to my parents, to God, to everybody.

_The conductor remembered what Mr. C had said to him early that morning: "He didn't stop believing, if that's what you're thinking. At least not believing in **me**. He just stopped believing in everything else. In other people, and goodness, and the whole reason for Christmas itself."_

Anyway, during all that thinking, I dozed off for a while, but then I heard a train coming in, and it woke me up. I thought I'd try to get on if it stopped, and it did, but then I had to look twice: it was a passenger train. There was no one at all around- it was almost midnight. Like I said, it's harder to catch a ride on a passenger train, but when it just sat there, didn't go anywhere, I decided it was better than staying there.

When I got up, I felt better than I had in years. I didn't feel like coughing anymore, and best of all, I felt _warm_. As I got closer to the train, I could see in the windows on one of the cars, and it was full of kids- kids with no parents.

Course, _you_ know it was the PolEx, but back then, I didn't. It never stopped by my house when _I_ was a kid. . . but even that night, I could feel it was something special. Didn't even seem weird to me, all those kids. It just felt like the place I was supposed to be.

So I got on the back of the last car, and right then, the train started up again. When it chugged forward, I looked back at the station one last time, just making sure nobody'd seen me get on. There was one person there I hadn't noticed before, sitting down against the side of the building, sleeping. A bum like me, I thought.

_For the first time in a long while, the hobo looked directly at the conductor again. His eyes were a dark hazel, the conductor realized, like his sister's._

No, it _was_ me. I was looking at myself from the back of the Polar Express, and I was dead. I had died right there, asleep against the building. It was the cold or that cough that killed me, I guess. Didn't know what to think then- and I still don't know why. Why I got picked to stick around after I kicked it, why the PolEx felt like home. Why I'm still here or if I'll ever "go forth" enough for the Big Man- the _other_ Big Man, not ol' Saint Nick- to let me come home. Sometimes He reminds me of my parents- funny, ain't it?

I've figured out a lot of things since that night, seen a lot of kids come and go. . . seen you and your bunny slippers that other Christmas Eve, when the PolEx stopped for _you_. Feels almost like I started living when I died, when I got on that old rattler. . . and like life got interesting when you showed up.

* * *

"How much of that is true?" the conductor murmured after the hobo had finished and they had sat in silence for a while.

The hobo gave the quick, sudden grin the conductor was becoming used to. "All of it."

"I'm sorry," said the conductor. It was a sort of blanket sympathy for everything the hobo had suffered when he was alive, and for the doubt he must still feel.

_Maybe when he does believe in Christmas again, he'll. . . go home._ Selfishly, the conductor didn't want it to happen too soon. _And that's why it's hard to believe in people. . . we try our best, most of us, but we aren't like children anymore, and we aren't like Christ or even Mr. C. We misunderstand each other, and we want what's best for ourselves._

And then the hobo said, "Don't feel too sorry for me. One of the things I figured out, riding the PolEx, was how selfish I was that night. I should've gone with them, should've told 'em who I was and given 'em a chance. But I was too proud and. . . I guess you'd say self-righteous to do it. But then. . . ." He paused to stretch. "I wouldn't be here. I was pretty useless when I was alive, but now I have a full-time job, looking out for you and those kids on the train."

"Don't flatter yourself too much," said the conductor. They looked at each other, cold mugs in their hands and the fire flickering on their faces.

"Christmas is over," said the hobo.

The conductor looked at his mantle clock; it was indeed after midnight. "I suppose." He turned back to the ghost. "You gave me a day to show you that it was more than you thought it was. Are you convinced?"

The hobo smirked. "You showed me a lot of snow and lights, and more elves than I ever wanted to see. That's pretty much what I thought Christmas was." The conductor gathered himself to explode in indignation, but the hobo's smirk melted before he could. "But like I said. . . no one's ever bothered to ask for my story before. No one's ever cared. But you asked, and you listened."

He paused, and for an instant, before he could regain his usual sarcastic expression, there was a look of joy in his eyes. It lit the hobo's face the way his sister's had lit up for him.

"That's more than I ever thought Christmas could be."

* * *

_Tell me, how many times can this story be told?_

_After all of this time, it should all sound so old,_

_But it somehow rings true in the back of my mind_

_As I search for a dream that words can no longer define._

* * *

The End


End file.
